


Man's Search For Music

by AnnaBolena



Series: Titles With Meaning In Them [1]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Classical Music Shenanigans, Erotic Hand-contact, Home of Sexual Edition, M/M, Pining, Pre-Canon, That is to say: 1845 Winter-esque time, They're stuck at Beechey, Underlying symptoms of mild lead poisoning, victorian flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:00:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24529519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaBolena/pseuds/AnnaBolena
Summary: “Careful, Sir,” he cautions, a laugh hidden away somewhere in his calm, professional voice. Edward is not sure how he may draw it to the surface, but a buried part of him wishes nothing more dearly than that. “You’ll upset your coat again.”a.k.a. Edward Little's very preoccupied gay thoughts, Winter 1845/46
Relationships: Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little
Series: Titles With Meaning In Them [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1803049
Comments: 25
Kudos: 59





	Man's Search For Music

**Author's Note:**

> This book, man.  
> That TV Show.  
> It's wild.
> 
> Imagine how awful it must have been having a song stuck in your head when you couldn't just Google and Play it. Wild.

He cannot recall the next note.

Edward records this with great dissatisfaction as he sits at table. Heretofore at work on his left leg, his fingers have stilled, frozen in locus, poised to continue the movement but – alas! – coming up short. The melody will come to him no longer. And this from a piece he never grew tired of hearing, when he still had ample opportunities to enjoy such compositions!

The cold takes much from men, from their minds, from their bodies. This, however, Edward cannot help but accredit to something more sinister, something which diminishes the opinion he previously kept of himself. Has he driven himself to such distraction? Has his mind been filled so thoroughly with improper musings as to forget what his sister once challenged him to play with his eyes closed? He rose admirably to the challenge, then – now he falters, not even a third of the way through.

“Something on your mind, Edward?” Crozier - to his right, tonight – inquires sotto voce. He did not expect to be directly addressed; he so seldom is, when the Erebites come aboard to raid Crozier’s stores under the guise of companionship.

“Beg pardon?”

It comes out rougher than Edward intended – he can confess that freely to his own mind, but his own mind only - and louder, too. He had not been paying the conversation around him the slightest of mind. The table falls quiet, the great cabin on _Terror_ stills. All Edward hears now is the great sea outside, a great macrocosm replicated in his own rushing blood – each man a world unto himself. Now he must abide by what he has done, sham conviction of being well within his rights to make such an improper interjection.

Crozier pretends he said nothing at all, selling his feigned lack of concern with a hearty swig of whatever swims in his glass, smoothly hiding a grin. By the look of Commander Fitzjames, Edward’s untimely outburst disturbed his grand storytelling of the night. Edward wonders what it was he interrupted - the feline or the sniper story. “What is it you find so hard to believe, Lieutenant Little?”

He might guess - would run the risk of making a fool of himself if he did, however.

The man still sounds genial, is the foulest part of the situation. Edward rather rudely – if unintentionally – called into question his sincerity, and the Commander smiles at him as though he’s humouring a child. It belies a deeper dissatisfaction, Edward suspects. Were he an AB, he would soon have duty owing on some pretence or other. As it is, he supposes it safer to simply avoid Fitzjames in the foreseeable future.

“My apologies,” Edward pushes away from the table, unashamed of using Crozier as his ticket after the Captain so ill-used him for his own entertainment. “Captain Crozier merely reminded me I had some duties yet left unattended. Do continue your story, Sir, but know I regret I shall miss it.”

Sir John protests – he always does when one of his merry officers begs leave – but he dares not step on Crozier’s feet too outwardly, not after their last row, at least. It’ll be some time yet before their expedition leader sees fit to extend his tendrils of power over _Terror_ once more.

In his haste to get away, Edward would have collided with poor Jopson, were it not for the man’s impeccable training. He grumbles a brusque apology, feels off-kilter by the close contact. The steward brushes something off Edward’s epaulettes, rights Edward’s haphazardly hanging coat, and then steps aside with more grace than Edward could muster in a year to grant him passage through the gangway.

+

What is that bloody note?

Only after he has grunted his disapproval at the watch’s lacklustre stance and subpar report do his fingers seek out the wood of the railing to make another attempt of it. Edward Little looks up at the constellations – the melody returns easily to his mind. Unbeknownst to the sixty-odd poor devils on the voyage with him, he taps out note after note, imagines himself back in London and not beset by ice from every conceivable direction. The thought does scarcely anything to keep him warm, serves only to stir his imagination in dangerous directions, leads Edward to think of eyes he should like to wake up to in England, and more shameful thoughts still.

That one note is missing, yet.

Edward sighs.

It used to come so easily to him.

+

Hodgson plays that abominable hand organ night after night, so reliable in his habit that Edward would make for his berth the very instant his friend darkened the doorstep of the great cabin, were it not for the absolutely necessary warmth that only a shared room can provide on board an ice-locked ship. There is not much else to be said in favour of conversation, as they all lack the will to engage in proper debate. Edward includes himself in that count, though he knows himself to have previously enjoyed the occasional point of contention, if carried through with civility.

“Shall we have another?” John asks, excitedly peering over George’s shoulder, to see what else their collection will offer up – as though they have not overplayed every awful shanty at their disposal at least a dozen times these months wintering at Beechey.

“Good Christ,” Edward whispers to himself, pinches the bridge of his nose, considers praying to God for strength to concentrate on the book he has picked out for himself. _I know I told Captain Crozier I should rather have kidney stones removed with a spoon than listen to sermons on Sunday, but it’s your humble servant Sir John at fault for those words said in despair. I will not reject your benign hand if you willingly extend it to me. Spare me now--_ If George plays _The Rose_ one more time Edward will—

“A new favourite of mine, John!” Cries George, readying himself to torment Edward further. “I should like to hear you sing along, I trust you know it.”

 _Hang the cold,_ Edward thinks, and pushes out of his chair. _May God in his mercilessness rot in hell._ In doing so he nearly collides with the steward once more, but Jopson dances out of his way as though someone warned him a gruff, clumsy Lieutenant would habitually attempt to do bodily harm to his person on this voyage.

“Careful, Sir,” he cautions, a laugh hidden away somewhere in his calm, professional voice. Edward is not sure how he may draw it to the surface, but a buried part of him wishes nothing more dearly than to do just that. “You’ll upset your coat again.”

A fine, gloved hand brushes something off of him that he had not even noticed. It may well have been residual snow, melted and left as a salty crust on his lapel. Those desires Edward has are buried for a reason. He could not stamp them out satisfactorily. Instead he has been denying them light and nourishment, hoping they will wilt as surely as every flower his sister ever attempted to tend to. Now, to feel the steward’s hand on him so soon after the previous incident at dinner, is like a shock of life that runs through limbs which have been numb for days. Edward feels alive, feels fully present in his body for the first time in weeks.

It is too much to bear, far too pleasant, too easy to get lost in. The temptation Jopson presents, unbeknownst to the man himself, will be Edward’s undoing if he does not master himself, and soon.

“My apologies, Mister Jopson,” he chokes out, quitting the great cabin just as _The Rose_ begins to play to the room’s general cheer.

+

“I apologize, Sir, but I must ask you not to abuse the fine wood so with your nails, Sir,” Jopson’s calm, chastising tone draws Edward from the deep well of his thoughts, from a music hall, from a melody, from a hand enclosed in his, squeezing at just the right moment, just as that damned note had been within reach. Now the abominable note is still lost on him, but he cannot find fault with Jopson for that. “The Captain will be with you in but a moment, I assure you it is not necessary to wreak havoc on his furniture for being made to wait a while.”

Edward glances at Jopson, then back at the table, where indeed he has come close to chipping away some of the lacquer. He is horrified at his own state of distraction, feels not quite right. His head is heavier than Edward grew accustomed to over the years, and he thinks not that a sudden increase in brain mass is responsible for it. This expedition is wearing him thin already, and they have not even been gone a full year as of yet. “I certainly did not mean to be such a brute – not even to a table so deserving.”

He has suffered greatly at this table, he means to imply. Endless dinners spent being made to listen to Sir John’s preaching or Fitzjames’ heroics or Crozier’s melancholy ramblings. Jopson seems to take his meaning, shaking his head as the anger in his eyes slowly gives way to amusement. How tempting, to foray ahead, to see if he could draw out more from the man. A past lover once told Edward he had a talent for such things, if he set his mind to it. He was younger then, more prone to laughter himself, but even now he thinks he might make Jopson laugh, if he applied himself to the art of it.

He will not. He cannot, hang how much he should like to.

That is not the road for them, certainly not for Jopson; never mind that Edward has been down a road appearing quite like this one several times in his life. Jopson ought not have to suffer his attentions, simply because he has unwittingly excited them. There is much to admire, after all – but Edward has done so quietly these past few months, intends to continue as he has if he cannot be moved to forget these notions, these daydreams that sneak up on him at times most inopportune, which is to say: all the fucking time.

“Truly, I do apologize,” Edward adds, lifting his hands in surrender. “I shall touch the table no more until we make land in Oahu.”

“You need not be quite so drastic, Sir,” Jopson assures him, straightening his back.

Oahu – any mention of it – feels more a fever dream than their intended destination. When might they reach it? He almost asks Jopson as much.

“Until we find the passage, then,” he amends. Glancing up into Jopson’s piercing eyes, Edward soon thinks better of seeking out conversation that can only tempt him to terrible things.

“You may lay hands on whatever you wish, Sir, if you but swear you will be gentle.”

He knows Jopson cannot mean to encourage him, but those damned eyes could delude lesser fools than Edward into perceiving something akin to interest.

“Very well,” Edward agrees, throat dry. It must show through.

Jopson acknowledges this settlement with a brief nod. “Will you be wanting some tea, Sir?”

He nods, in turn.

Jopson disappears to see to his duties.

Edward puts thoughts of music aside for the time being, folds his hands in his lap so that a mind left idle does not allow them to wander once more – tomorrow, he’ll have a look about the sheet music they’ve brought along, see if he can’t see the melody complete once more. Tonight, he needs all his wits about him. Crozier will certainly not be pleased to find his second lost in thought.

+

When he dreams, he does not dream of the ice – small mercy, that is. George tells tales of being stuck indefinitely, of wolves howling in the night when the winds whip Terror around, exposing her to the risk of wanton destruction. John dreams of brimstones and fire, paradoxically leading them to their icy deaths. Edward dreams of the song he cannot complete. The library had turned up nothing of the sort, and Edward can think of no greater ordeal than asking one of his fellow officers about having the necessary insight to bridge the gap in the movement, to fix a hole in his memory that this cold has poked into him.

He wakes in darkness, just as the first bells for the morning watch drift through the air.

Bright eyes accompanied the melody in his head, tonight, as they often do. Bright eyes and soft, capable hands, ghosting over his skin in a manner that leaves him tingling as he comes to, like a thousand pleasant pinpricks in his hands and legs. Bright eyes and a full mouth drawn into a smile; a tongue which darts out to wet them, a head thrown back, a length of neck exposed, a dusting of stubble across a jawline Edward sees whenever he closes his eyes.

They are not always so abstract, the dreams.

Sometimes, they are coherent enough to leave Edward restless and unfulfilled, aching as he wakes up; and not from the cold. Those mornings Edward laments his particular tastes more than anything else.

Had he a greater talent for sketching the human form as opposed to components of a ship, he would feel compelled to put those dreams to paper, dangerous as they are. As it happens, he resists the call. It would do him no good, in any case, to have these glimpses of Jopson he fixates on formed into something tangible on paper.

Edward blinks away some of the residual blackness always hovering around the edge of his vision like smoke, begins to dress, attempts to forget the fragments of his dream, even as the melody continues to move through him.

+

Jopson is alone in the great cabin when Edward returns to _Terror_ soaked to the bone, preparing tea for the lot of them in anticipation of the command meeting Crozier ordered to take place upon Little’s return. He’s humming something which sounds awfully familiar to Edward, not taking note of no longer being alone until Edward rather obviously coughs into his elbow.

“Captain Crozier did not expect you until the end of second Dog Watch, Sir,” the steward announces, straightening his back and vanishing his hands behind him, once more the picture of propriety, the music gone from his lips. “He’s in the orlop with Lieutenant Hodgson.”

Edward nods. “Sir John had naught to say to Captain Crozier’s propositions, is all,” he admits. “Not much of a conference.” His throat feels heavy, his mind more so. It is not the regular exhaustion that befalls him now, however. Faced with Jopson, a great many feelings of heaviness beset Edward, to counter the lightness of his heart when the man glances at him.

They have never been alone for so long, Edward turns that thought over and over in his head until he can convince himself that this is not significant. His sister would certainly thump him across the back of the head, if she were privy to his thoughts now. _Are you some great beast, Ned, that you do not trust yourself alone in the same room as he for fear of devouring him whole?_

He can picture Nellie perfectly well, as though she is sitting across him this very instant, clad in the summer dress she wore to see him off at Greenhithe. _You do yourself a great injustice, my dear ‘Nedward’._

He wonders that she shivers not.

“Do not call me that,” Edward whispers into the empty air across the table. He shakes his head to attempt to clear his thoughts. Nellie disappears into the smoke at the field of his vision, he blinks her away as easily as he does that, then absurdly regrets not having asked her if she might know how to complete the movement stuck in his head. He is exhausted, that is all.

“Is there anything I can do for you then, Lieutenant? Will you take a spot of whiskey to ward off the cold, perhaps?” Jopson inquires, softly, so softly in fact, that Edward would not have heard him at all, were he not predisposed to notice more about the young steward than propriety allows or even tolerates.

Jopson looks rather expectant, from his designated corner, where he arranges and rearranges glasses and cups until they meet his commendably high standards.

“Might there be something else you need?” The steward adds, in a tone that Edward finds embarrassingly inspiring. “Anything, Sir?”

 _(There is plenty you may do for me, Jopson, more still that I should wish to do for you_ \---)

He would perjure himself greatly, were he to claim he had not noticed the young man the very first time he had poured a cup of tea for Edward after he stepped aboard many months past. By nature, Edward is a candid man, if private. Honest with himself above all, if prone to suppress uncomfortable truths once acknowledged. He is no fool, prides himself on his restraint, usually. Oh, but when Jopson looks at him thus, he runs the risk of forgetting all of this admirable restraint. Edward should hate to have his desires laid bare, should loathe to watch the young man recoil, and should abhor to watch respect turn to disgust or – rather worse: fear.

“I ought to—”

“Tea perhaps, Sir?” Jopson asks, just as Edward had gathered himself enough to make his excuses to quit the room, to quit this temptation, to avert certain ruin at the last possible second. He blinks at Jopson, who shifts from one foot to the other, rolls his shoulders. He could swear the man is not usually so fidgety.

Perhaps the cold is getting to Jopson as much as the rest of them. It could very well be.

(More frighteningly, perhaps Jopson has finally noticed that Edward’s eyes rest on him even when he tries to tear them away.)

“I do not think the captain shall be very long, Sir,” Jopson hastens to add, leaning forward a bit as he speaks. Though the whole cabin yet divides them, Edward notices the change in posture as something exciting. “You must be positively freezing. Better to have a cup and wait than to go seek him out, perhaps, Sir?”

“Yes,” Edward decides, at long last. “Yes, thank you, Jopson, I will.”

“Very good, Sir,” Jopson smiles. It is lovelier than his dreams promised him, even. “That’ll just be a moment, then.”

Edward tries to look away, only for his eyes to wander back to the man the very second Jopson turns back to his preparations. “What is that you were humming?”

The steward pauses, the second of Edward’s two customary lumps of sugar hovering in the tongs. “Pardon me, Sir, I did not think anyone heard me—”

“Bach, is it not?” Edward continues. If he is not mistaken, it is the very movement that has bedevilled him these past weeks, always ending too abruptly for want of further notes.

Jopson drops the lump of sugar, nods, his whole body turned away from Edward.

“One of my great favourites,” sighs Edward, longing for London’s music halls; longing to take Jopson’s hand in his as they listen to some master or other put Edward’s poor recollection of the piece to shame. All that and more, his dreams have promised him, but it is that scene in particular that returns to him again and again. Perhaps it is the innocence of the tableau, Edward considers, as opposed to the lurid fantasies he gives himself over to in hours of greater desperation.

He need not turn his thoughts away from treating Jopson to a night of music – especially not now that he has confirmation the man appreciates Bach, too. Edward could easily pen him a letter, once they return to England, could—

Ah, but that is no use, he knows.

If left to linger in this fantasy, it soon outgrows its initial innocence, as many things do. Jopson’s hand leaves Edward’s for his thigh, for his inseam, for—

“Yes, I know, Sir,” Jopson comments, amused. This gives Edward pause – to be sure, his fondness for the classical period is well-known, but somewhat naively, he had not expected the steward to pay him more attention than is his due. Had not dared consider his interest reciprocated out of fear for his restraint, tattered though it is at present. “As, I imagine, does the table.”

It should not please him so, but it does. Edward is as fallible as the next man, his heart sings at the thought of Jopson knowing his tastes, the notion that Jopson takes an interest in him, even as his rational mind recoils at the implications that he has revealed too much of himself. No, that will not do.

Jopson hands him a steaming hot cup.

“I have not laid a hand on the table since you so scolded me, Mister Jopson,” Edward assures him, trying for earnestness. “My lesson was learned, I have been reformed by your tongue, well, that is – your hand? Uh…”

“You have kept them admirably to yourself this far, yes,” Jopson agrees, eyes twinkling. Lost in his contemplations as he is, Edward exercises not the usual amount of caution. Their fingers brush, albeit briefly, and Jopson draws away as if burned, beating a hasty retreat. He does not go far. His hand rests on the table, next to where Edward has set the cup down now. It would be the easiest thing in the world to reach out, to cover the steward’s hand with his own. Jopson may even allow it –

“As you requested,” Edward says, spellbound by Jopson’s firm gaze. “I should not dare to break the rules you set for us poor officers when it comes to this cabin.”

“Lieutenant,” Jopson chides, fondly, “I think all I asked was that you be _gentle_.”

Edward draws in a harsh breath, lays his hand on the solid wood of the table, a scant few inches from where Jopson’s hand splays, steadying the steward against the table. If Edward turned his foot just so, his knee would touch Jopson’s. “I’ve been known to be gentle, when the occasion requires it.” He is very careful not to move. “This here abides by your rules, then? Will you allow me this freedom?”

The steward looks more amused than anything.

“I should think you quite at your leisure to do more, Sir,” Jopson claims; still holding Edward’s eyes, the steward shifts, an elegant movement, artless. Jopson’s fingertips touch to Edward’s, glove on skin. “But if you would have my express permission—”

The moment is broken as the both of them grow alert to Crozier’s heavy footsteps, leading to the great cabin. “Out with it, John,” he growls. “I’ll not suffer your stuttering silences for long, I tell you! – Ah, Edward! You’re back earlier than predicted. Jopson, do be so kind as to fetch Lieutenant Hodgson, then we may have ourselves an early night, after all.”

+

Violins play in Edward’s mind as his eyes follow Jopson around the room, though he hardly fares better imagining the piece thus than he did with the piano rendition. He notices not the faint movement of his fingertips on the wood, consciously softer than usual, his attention drawn to what he is doing only when met with Commander Fitzjames’ derisive smile across the table.

“Are we boring you, Edward?”

He can only be glad that they are at dinner, not in the midst of a command meeting. Edward catches the tail-end of a hastily hidden smile on Jopson’s turning face, before he is drawn from his daydreams fully to confront Fitzjames. The steward hides a lovely smile beneath his mask of cool professionalism, one he has been allowed to glimpse but twice since he has known Jopson – or known of him, in any case. There is so much he could not say of the man, so much he should wish to discover, if it were acceptable. Edward is in grave danger of slipping again, the road before him more dangerous than the ice that could crush them if no thaw arrives with the turning of the year.

“My thoughts were in England – I am afraid my company tonight is all the poorer for missing her shores.”

It makes for a pitiful excuse – though surely the other officers do not expect more of him?

“A sickness which plagues all aboard,” adds Sir John, empathetically. “Ah, but there is nothing quite so lovely as England in spring, Edward. How right you are!”

He had said nothing of spring, but inclines his head at their leader, forces a smile that feels uncomfortable before it begins. Weary of another faux-pas, Edward pushes all thoughts of music and Jopson from his mind.

“And what have you to say of Malta, Edward?”

“Malta, Sir?” Edward asks.

“Francis tells me you are accustomed to warmer climes than this,” Sir John prods, before returning to the act of dissecting his dinner.

“Are not we all?” Retorts George, when Edward is at a loss as to what he might recount. There is little to say of Malta, little fit for polite company, that is. He could fill endless hours with stories of fine wine and physical exertion, and swiftly see himself court-martialled for it. Malta was a different time – seems half a different life, now.

“I was much pleased by the music halls,” he finally forces himself to say, aware that his tastes are not shared in this room, in too many respects. Particularly music holds no great standing with the assembled men, though Sir John fancies himself quite the connoisseur of everything from opera to divine hymns. “We were treated to very fine concerts by the locals, about once a month.”

When Edward does not bark commands at men on deck, he does not have much of a gift for holding the attentions of men or women. No, his voice is too low, his tone too uncertain, his words too dull for most. It has never bothered him – there have not been very many people Edward has been interested in fostering closeness to, past a quick tumble or an indulgent night.

After polite responses made out of courtesy, he is largely ignored. Having said his required fill for the night, Edward is glad to return to quietude and leave the spotlight to the estimable Commander Fitzjames.

+

The skies open up relentlessly during Middle Watch, just after third bells. Edward retreats to somewhere he may shield his eyes a little, soothing his shivering body with the promise of tea at the earliest opportunity. It complains, still, but the expectation of warmth does aid in dispelling the worst of his agues.

In the darkness, _Terror_ is tossed hither and tither between the ice, shifting and groaning, her deck turning slippery enough to warrant only the most cautious of movement. Evidently, whoever is hurrying in Edward’s general direction had not accounted for that.

One particularly loud thunderclap surprises them, sends the two of them colliding. Edward finds himself with an armful of Jopson, reaching out instinctively to steady him as he would steady any man on board – or so he tells himself. As Terror’s bow rises unevenly, he scrabbles for purchase on one of the ropes. The boat rocks dangerously, creaks now here, now there, until a deafening noise comes from below.

“Something will have come loose in the orlop,” Edward intuits, having to yell the words into Jopson’s ear to be understood over the relentless rain.

“The barrels of fresh water, perhaps, Sir?” Jopson returns, in the same tone. Lightning strikes, for an instant Edward stares down into eyes opened wide, into a face lovelier than any man has a right to be. Jopson’s hands are fisted into his coat, holding on for dear life as they are rocked about. If Edward felt any compunction about keeping the man close for a while longer, it is thus justified. They would both stumble, perhaps chip a tooth or two on the planks in solitary efforts to stay upright, were he to abandon the man to his fate.

“Aye, maybe,” Edward agrees. “You ought to be asleep, Mister Jopson.”

“Oh, yes,” laughs Jopson, “I should prefer to be – I was on my way back to my cabin, in fact, when you so gallantly seized me.”

The man teases, Edward needs not look into his eyes to realize as much. Nevertheless, a shiver runs over Edward’s back, and not from the cold. The insinuations – he knows he ought to release Jopson, but that would surely see the poor fellow slip on the sheet of ice that has lined the deck in the storm. He wishes not to make him uncomfortable by forcing proximity, but—

“But a moment of your patience, Mister Jopson, then I will personally accompany you below deck.”

“Awfully kind of you, Sir.” Jopson holds on tighter when his feet slip on the ice. Edward tightens his arm around the man’s middle. Even through their many combined layers, it is too intimate by far.

That is a mistake, one Edward ought not to have made. He knows it as soon as he feels the man press against him, feels Jopson’s breath on his neck, feels his forehead slump against Edward’s shoulder. Edward closes his eyes, inhales, feels the wind on his face lessen for a moment. It is long enough to release Jopson and usher him in the general direction of the hatch. A moment longer, and Edward is convinced he should have done something regrettable.

“Get some rest, Mister Jopson.”

“Yes, Sir!” Jopson’s lip quirks as he puts his knuckles to his temple.

(When Edward goes to his berth shortly after eight bells, he finds tea and biscuits ready for him.)

+

Edward taps out the notes on his book, steadily ignoring the last few souls present in the great cabin, lost in his own thoughts. Ross’ account before him brokers no interest; it is the same self-aggrandizing tales Edward has so come to detest being shared over dinner by his fellow officers. His head aches, as do his limbs. The day has not been kind to him – or _Terror_ , in fact. Come the morning, there are reparations to be initiated, many of them.

A finger presses softly to the right of his thumb, rustling the page. Edward turns, not expecting Jopson to venture so close, not in company. (Indeed not in privacy, either, but they have never yet been afforded true privacy.) He recoils a little, but swiftly catches himself. They are alone – Captain Crozier has not yet returned from _Erebus_ , it is likely that he will not before daybreak.

George and John have long since retired – Edward ought to have realized sooner that the hand organ stopped. He shudders to think that he may have grown used to the horrible thing, or else that he should have supposed George to be capable of sparing him the torture for even a single night if not moved by the utmost exhaustion.

“Yes, Mister Jopson?”

“The note you cannot find,” Jopson explains. Edward furrows his brow at the young man, wants to ask what he is about. “I do not – forgive me, Sir, I’m no pianist, not truly. But I believe the next note is that one.”

“ _That one_?”

“Yes,” Jopson nods fervently, demonstrating. “You pause your movement here, Sir – and the next note is lower, if you understand what I mean to say. On a pianoforte, it should sit _just here_.”

Again, he presses down on the paper, next to Edward’s thumb.

“C, you say?” Edward wonders at being so known. How long has Jopson cottoned onto his strange reveries? What else has he noticed that Edward wished to remain private? He can only hope he has been better at checking his desires than his distractions.

Jopson hums the melody, continuing the movement past Edward’s inevitable frustration. “But that’s exactly right,” Edward realizes, unable and indeed unwilling to hide his amazement.

“Is that a C, then, Sir?”

“I do believe it is,” Edward agrees. “Thank you kindly, Mister Jopson.”

“Oh, good,” grins Jopson, devastating Edward for witnessing it in such proximity. “Can’t read notes very well, me, I’m afraid. I’ve tried to learn some. Never really sticks, Sir.”

“I should think it all the more impressive that you would recall them from memory, in that case.”

He must have a natural ear for music, Jopson. Would he appreciate being introduced to more such fine pieces? Edward thinks he might, he thinks an evening of music would afford the both of them great pleasure. Almost suggests as much, unable to check himself—

“You flatter me,” Jopson colours, withdrawing.

Perhaps later, Edward will blame the progress of the day, the general exhaustion, or a will weakened by the continuous onslaught against his defences by that brilliant smile, when he reflects on what might have prompted him to abandon sense and grasp the steward’s wrist, slightly swollen, to prevent his retreat. His thumb rubs once, twice, thrice over the bare sliver of skin beneath the glove, taking liberties he has not earned, bolder than he ought.

“I am not much of a flatterer, Mister Jopson,” he feels the need to inform.

“No?”

He drops Jopson’s hand hastily. “Forgive me, I did not mean to seize you.”

“Perhaps it is the cold addling my brain, Sir, but I seem to recall giving you permission to do just what you would, not so long ago,” Jopson smiles lopsidedly, stepping away from Edward, but not entirely reassuming his professional demeanour. “It is late – you ought to get some rest.”

“I have been dreaming often, you should know,” Edward starts, unbidden, feeling the need to share this with Jopson, “Of the piece, of-- of that particular movement, for weeks, in fact. I’ve thought of little else.” _Of you_.

“Have dreams quite often, meself,” Jopson tells him softly, stepping from the cabin and into the darkness of the gangway. “Same as you, Sir, I’d wager.”

Edward sits in the cabin a while longer, the tips of his fingers tingling from the brief contact they made with Jopson’s wrist. He touches them to his lips, exhales loudly.

 _Permission to do just what you would_ , eh?

That night he feels not an inkling of shame when bright eyes enter his dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [](https://annabrolena.tumblr.com)


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